


Tie Your Arms Down

by philalethia



Series: Show and Noise [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Knifeplay, M/M, Painplay, Power Play, Sadomasochism, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock broached the subject of bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tie Your Arms Down

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There is explicit description in this story of a person hurting, and particularly cutting, himself for sexual pleasure. If you think this may be distressing or triggering for you, I strongly advise you not to read.
> 
> Reading the previous stories in the series is recommended but not necessary.

John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock broached the subject of bondage.

First there was the set of double-lock police-grade handcuffs in the centre of the coffee table, and then the medium-length nylon rope looped around the kettle on the kitchen countertop. Next came websites left open in John’s internet browser: a photo of a pair of leather cuffs on an online shop, advice columns about how to tie someone up safely, articles listing different sorts of bondage gear.

John, who by now was nearly immune to Sherlock’s attempts at subtlety, allowed himself a giggle or two when he was alone, but said nothing to Sherlock. He budged the rope aside, ignored the handcuffs, and closed the web pages without a word, and then watched as Sherlock’s supply of patience—already quite limited—began to run dry.

So when Sherlock had finally had enough, John was prepared for it.

“I can’t decide,” Sherlock said, nearly shouting as he loomed over the armchair where John was seated, “if you’re being coy or simply obtuse, but either way, you have ignored every attempt I have made to propose a new sexual activity for us.”

“Oh,” John answered, calmly turning a page in his newspaper, “was that what those were? I thought they were piss-poor attempts at subtlety and shocking displays of childishness, actually.”

Sherlock said nothing, merely continued to loom, a severe scowl darkening his expression.

John chuckled as he folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Look, Sherlock, as far as I’m concerned, if you want to discuss bondage, then you can bloody well bring it up like an adult.”

“John,” said Sherlock, “I would like to discuss bondage.”

“All right. What about it?”

Sherlock’s scowl became positively vicious. “Don’t be patronising, John, it doesn’t suit you. You know what I mean. I want to try it.”

“Yeah, all right, but ‘try it’ could mean any number of things. For one, which of us are you expecting to be tied up?”

Sherlock’s face went blank, as though he honestly hadn’t considered it quite like that. “I suppose I assumed you would prefer to be bound… although your current expression clearly indicates I was mistaken.”

“Yep,” John confirmed. “I hate being restrained. Can’t stand it at all.”

In fact, the last time he had been, he’d had a particularly vivid flashback of Afghanistan—he’d been reminded of the desert heat and grit, the sense of being adrift and helpless that had come sometimes during the quiet nights and especially when one of the other men was killed—and John had had a panic attack and had to be soothed like a spooked horse. Never again, he had told himself, which wasn’t a hardship—the idea of bondage had never appealed to him, and certainly not when he was the partner who was bound.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, frowning. His shoulders drooped a bit in disappointment.

John felt a niggle of guilt but swept it swiftly away. He got enough of setting aside his boundaries as a result of Sherlock’s whims _outside_ his sex life, thanks; he wasn’t going to do the same _in_ it.

“You’re not keen on being restrained either, I suppose?” John asked curiously.

Sherlock scoffed, gathered his dressing gown about himself with a dramatic swoop of one arm, then stalked to the sofa and flung himself backwards across the cushions. “Of course not. What purpose would it serve for someone like me?”

John wondered what “someone like me” meant—a sadist, a genius, a fidgety and pompous git?—but decided not to press.

Instead, he shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe you wanted to test your ability to escape a pair of restraints while I, you know, _distracted_ you.”

Sherlock huffed and was partway through an eye roll when suddenly his face lit up, like he’d just had a breakthrough in an especially interesting case.

“Oh, John,” he said. “That could be _fun_.”

*

The thing was, John couldn’t often compete with Sherlock. Aside from pop culture trivia, capacity for empathy, everyday tasks like the washing up, and maybe certain sports knowledge, Sherlock was technically superior in most respects—more intelligent, more fit, more imaginative, more charismatic, more clever, and so on.

But _this_ , well. John prided himself on being very, very good at tying knots, and he knew enough now about Sherlock’s sexual preferences that he fancied he’d be able to sufficiently distract him.

So John devoted a great deal of time over the next several days to planning and preparing. By the time that he had Sherlock nude and tied, spread eagle, to the four corners of his own bed with strong, conditioned hemp rope, he was feeling very confident indeed.

“I admit,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “I didn’t expect you to choose the frankly cliché tied-to-the-bed scenario. Bit disappointing, this.”

But he didn’t really think so; John could tell. He was intrigued. He wanted to know why the bed, why the rope, when being handcuffed to a chair with no obvious lock-picking tools within reach would prove more of a challenge. But even aside from John’s skill with a knot, John preferred a rope, liked the way it looked against Sherlock’s skin and the way Sherlock had stared up at him as he looped it around Sherlock’s wrists, his sharp eyes cataloguing John’s every movement.

John hadn’t intended to tie Sherlock’s legs as well, but Sherlock had apparently expected it, holding them in place and raising an eyebrow at John as though to say _well, get on with it_. And, well, if Sherlock was willing, as he evidently was, then John wouldn’t mind finding out what it was like to have Sherlock fully restrained and (ostensibly) helpless.

“I thought about tying you to one of the chairs in the kitchen,” John admitted. “But my legs probably wouldn’t hold out long enough for that, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose even further, causing John to grin. Sherlock—observant to the point of being nearly psychic, the bloody genius—no doubt had an accurate idea of what John had in mind, but knowing and experiencing were quite different, particularly where sex was concerned. John was relying on that to hold Sherlock’s interest.

And Sherlock, as John had known he would, made a fetching picture like this, stretched out and tied down, already mostly hard as he squirmed and tested the ropes. John stopped him so he could check them himself: secure but not too tight—perfect.

Just in case, he asked, “Does that feel all right?” to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, although I hardly see why it matters. I won’t be in them long.”

John smiled. “We’ll see.”

After confirming again that the ropes weren’t too tight or poorly placed, John stepped back from the bed and knelt to rifle through his bag of supplies—carefully, although sparsely, stocked—on the floor.

“Razor blade, scalpel, or hunting knife?” he asked, more curious what Sherlock would choose than anything. He already knew which he preferred.

Interestingly, Sherlock seemed taken aback by the question. “You— What?”

Apparently, John had managed to confound Sherlock’s power of deduction after all. That was flattering, even inspiring.

“I think the scalpel,” John decided. “Any objections?”

“No.” John was pleased to see that Sherlock was no longer testing the ropes; all of his attention was centred on John, as though John was a very clever puzzle he longed to solve. “No, the scalpel is… fine.”

With a cheerful hum, John plucked it out of the bag, along with an antiseptic wipe, a condom, and a bottle of lubricant. All of it he set on the duvet by Sherlock’s right thigh, and Sherlock swivelled his head so he could examine them. His brows were knit, lips pursed, but his cock was fully hard now, long, pink, and uncut and curved just slightly to the left.

“Have you ever had a handjob with a condom on?” John asked, as he began to undress himself, tossing each article of clothing haphazardly on the floor.

Sherlock blinked, then shook his head.

“Dulls the sensation a bit.” Once John was unclothed, he knelt on the bed and snatched up the condom, which he unwrapped and began to roll onto Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock twitched, both limbs and prick, but remained silent, watching John’s hand with great interest. “Sort of a tease if you’re used to going without.”

That seemed to remind Sherlock of his purpose, and he renewed his squirming and rope-testing. He was smirking when he asked, “Really, John, that’s your plan? To give me a handjob while I’m wearing a condom?”

Once Sherlock’s cock was sheathed, John grabbed the lube and proceeded to dump a fair portion of it onto Sherlock’s cock, letting it dribble down the shaft before he began to help it along, wetting Sherlock’s erection from base to tip. It throbbed in John’s grip, and Sherlock moaned very, very softly.

“For a start,” John said.

He didn’t stroke for long. Just enough to ensure that Sherlock’s prick was slick and that his mind—no matter what the rest of him was doing—was in a lovely, dirty place, showing him all the things John could do with his cock while he only had to lie still and take it.

Then John swung a leg over Sherlock’s waist and, unceremoniously and more quickly than he would have done otherwise, sat on Sherlock’s cock.

It was like Sherlock had been shocked, his body jerked so violently. He tried to arch up, to drive himself even deeper into John, though the restraints largely prevented it. His eyes went wide, his mouth fell open, and his groan was long, breathy, and utterly blissful.

It was a gorgeous sight, enough to make up for the discomfort of a sudden prick up the arse and enough to keep his own erection, which had flagged considerably at the intrusion, from losing interest entirely in the proceedings. John had prepared, of course; he’d cleaned and fingered himself open in the loo while Sherlock had been in here preoccupied with investigating the malleability and length of the rope he was to be bound with. But this sort of thing had never been John’s preference. He usually, as he did now, found himself initially overwhelmed by the feeling of _wrongness_ , his body insisting _not meant to go there, thanks_. And although he also usually found himself enjoying it after a while, he rarely craved it, rarely initiated it, and never counted it among the best sexual experiences he’d had.

But Sherlock’s expression as John continued to ease himself down slowly—like John was a god worthy of daily devotion, like he would happily prostrate himself at John’s feet if it meant he could have this again—John thought he would be craving that sight for a very long time.

“You okay?” he asked, just to be sure.

Sherlock’s wide, still-stunned eyes blinked, and he nodded.

“Want me off?”

A resolute headshake. Sherlock seemed to forcibly gather himself, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment and biting his bottom lip.

“If you want me to stop or to untie you,” John told him, “just tell me, and I will do. Immediately, no questions asked. All right?”

Sherlock nodded again, appearing increasingly calmer now that John was fully seated, and John could see the moment his focus returned to the ropes holding his arms immobile above his head, determination hardening his expression.

Satisfied, John grabbed the antiseptic wipe from the duvet, shifting his weight and inadvertently wriggling a bit on Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock’s eyes went half-lidded, and his moan was weak, almost pained. His arms jerked against the restraints, then went limp.

John bit back a smile as he tore open the packet. “I need a few minutes to adjust, so you’ll need to keep still,” he said. “But in the meantime, I thought this might keep us both entertained.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned. He sounded as though he’d been struck quite solidly in the diaphragm and was still trying to regain his breath.

John waited, but Sherlock apparently had nothing else to add, just stared up at John with a dazed expression. His prick was throbbing strongly enough that John could feel it easily; the sensation reminded him of a vibrator with batteries on their last leg, pulsing weakly inside him. It must have wanted John to fuck himself on it very, very badly.

“It’s all right,” John told him. “You’ll get what you want soon, I promise. I’ll even let you come in me. Well, in the condom, in me, that is.”

Sherlock’s gaze fixed on John’s right arm as John began to wipe it clean from elbow to wrist. He looked lost, torn, like he couldn’t decide if he was being given a punishment or a reward, and John suddenly felt more fond of him than he had ever been. He thought he almost, _almost_ , wouldn’t mind if Sherlock weren’t wearing a condom. The look on Sherlock’s face, as he watched his own come leak messily, filthily from John’s loose hole, might even be worth the uncomfortable aftermath.

The skin of his arm sanitized, John tossed the wipe aside, plucked the scalpel from the duvet, and removed the protective cover. He held it up so that Sherlock could see the light glint teasingly off the blade. Sherlock, watching intently, licked his lips but stayed otherwise obediently still.

“Good,” John said, almost cooing. “Stay just like that for me, yeah?”

And with that, he lowered the blade to his inner elbow and cut a slow, shallow line sideways across the skin. As always, it took a fraction of a second for the pain to hit and blood to well up in the gash. At the sight, Sherlock made a soft “uhh” like he was the one who had been hurt, and his body surged beneath John, arms and legs straining against the ropes and hips fighting desperately to thrust up, although he couldn’t seem to get the leverage to do so.

It felt fantastic. John groaned and let his eyes drift shut, as he rocked with the tiny, aborted thrusts, relishing how the bite of pain in his arm made the discomfort of Sherlock’s prick fade away, transformed it into something distinctly pleasant.

It would be better, he thought vaguely, if Sherlock were holding the scalpel. John liked the uncertainty that came with someone else doing the hurting, the hint of danger that came with putting a potential weapon in someone else’s hands and saying _Go on, do it, I’ll let you_. But still, this was… exquisite.

John rocked again, biting his lip. Sherlock’s prick wasn’t thick, but it was long, just like the rest of him, and so, so hard. As John settled back on it, he realised that Sherlock was repeating his name, a slow but steady stream of pleading “John—John—John.” John looked down to find Sherlock’s eyes closed, sweat glistening on his forehead, his body tense and straining even harder now to buck upwards and fuck John properly.

“Sherlock. Look at me.” John kept his tone firm, and Sherlock froze immediately, his body stuck in a sort of half arch that raised him only a few centimetres off the duvet. His eyes opened, seemingly with some effort, and met John’s. “If you try to do that again,” John told him, “I’ll climb off, leave you here, and lock myself in the loo. Then I’ll cut over the scars you left on my leg and bugger myself with my fingers until I can hardly walk.”

Sherlock fell flat on the bed, shaking his head. “No, please, John—”

“Are you still okay?” John asked. “Do you want me to stop?”

Sherlock’s head shook even more insistently. “I’ll be still,” he promised. “I’ll— _Please_.”

John nodded, satisfied. He swiped his thumb over the wound on his arm, gathering a smear of the blood that had beaded up along it, and then held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock barely had to lift his head to take the offered finger into his mouth.

He lapped eagerly at John’s thumb, licking it clean, and then bit down hard on the knuckle, drawing a hiss from John. Sherlock whined loudly when John’s next response was to yank his hand away.

“John,” he moaned, sounding pitiful and needy and whorish. His hands, John noticed, were curled into fists, and his limps were so tense the muscles occasionally jerked beneath the taut skin. “I want to hurt you.”

And oh, so did John. He would love to untie Sherlock, pass him the scalpel, and let him mark up John’s arm until John was dizzy with the pain. But that wasn’t part of the game they were playing now.

Instead, he said, “Then untie yourself, and you can hurt me all you want.”

Sherlock renewed his struggles, his wrists twisting desperately as he tried to loosen the knots binding them, but John knew he wouldn’t succeed. Sherlock’s fingers were clumsy, his arms beginning to shake.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to untie you?” John prompted, one last time.

Sherlock was snarling before the question had even left John’s mouth. “Hardly. I am perfectly capable of untying myself, given— _ah_!”

John rolled his hips and tightened his muscles around Sherlock’s cock, which was beginning to feel quite pleasant indeed, shoved so deep now it almost hurt—but the good sort of hurt, like the sting of a blade. Sherlock’s cock was so long, and John felt so, so full, he almost couldn’t take it.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John sighed. “You’re so deep.”

Sherlock had gone even more tense beneath him, jaw dropping as he cried out. That John could do this—could exert control over Sherlock’s entire body just by sitting on it and _moving_ —was a heady feeling. He wanted to do this all day, to watch Sherlock slowly come apart beneath him and beg and cry and plead for John to move faster, to fuck him, to let him come.

John lowered the scalpel once more to his arm and made another cut beneath the first one—shorter but deeper; the blood not only beaded but dribbled down his elbow as well. It felt brilliant, the perfect kick of pain to mingle with the pleasure of Sherlock’s long, hard cock inside him.

“Oh god,” John groaned. He dropped the scalpel to the duvet, shoved it a safe distance away, and brought his hand to his stinging, bleeding arm. He dragged his fingers along the cuts, then scraped them with his nails. It hurt. _Oh_ , it hurt. “Christ,” he gasped, and did it again and again.

Sherlock stared, eyes flickering from the wounds to John’s face to where John was still fucking himself, although just barely, on Sherlock’s prick. Again, he seemed to have forgotten all about the ropes, except for whatever subconscious part of him recalled that his mobility was limited; otherwise, he’d certainly be fighting to grab at John, replace John’s nails with his own, and generally behaving like the handsy, needy sadist that he was.

“All right if I use you to get myself off?” John asked, beginning to pant. He lifted himself and let Sherlock’s cock slip an inch or two out of him so there would be no confusion about precisely what he meant. When he lowered himself again, Sherlock’s cock made a soft wet sound as it sank into him, and Sherlock’s head tilted back, hair falling like a halo around him. His chest was flushed and heaving; his mouth was wide open, sucking air desperately in as he tried to hold himself still for John. He was lovely, the very picture of debauchery, and he was John’s. He would probably do anything John asked of him now.

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered. “Oh. Yes. Please.”

So John did, keeping to the leisurely, circling sort of thrusts that he preferred. It took some manoeuvring, but finally he found the perfect angle, the one that drove the head of Sherlock’s cock sweetly into his prostate. A fresh drop of precome dribbled down his own cock after every thrust, and in no time at all, he was leaking steadily onto Sherlock’s belly. It felt so, so good that he never wanted it to end.

He spent ages like that, rocking gently on Sherlock’s prick and fondling his own wounds, savouring that tight coil of pleasure and pain that never failed to drive him out of his mind. John dropped his head back and focused on that sensation. Imagined what it would be like if he just let Sherlock have at him, gave Sherlock free reign of whatever part of John’s body he could reach and ravage, so long as he kept his cock hard and still for John to use.

Eventually, his legs tired, and his thighs began to ache. It was his body’s warning, he knew; if he kept this up, his calves would cramp, and he’d be in too much pain—the bad kind—to continue. With a groan, John left his cuts alone and closed his fingers around his cock instead, tightening his grip until he stopped wanting it to last, until all he wanted was to fuck his fist like an animal until he came, gasping.

It took less than a dozen strokes, and his orgasm went on and on, as he continued to squirm on Sherlock’s prick, tipping the head of it into his prostate until he was whimpering, his hand sticky with come.

“Fuck,” he breathed. He looked down so he could see the mess he’d made of Sherlock’s belly, the thick spurts of semen on his pale, smooth skin. Then John glanced up and was immediately mesmerised.

If Sherlock had looked dazed before, then he looked drugged senseless now. His face was pink and wet with sweat, and his eyes were unfocused, shining, fever-bright. His entire body trembled ceaselessly, and he let out a weak, wobbly moan with every heaving exhale. He looked utterly ruined, pushed nearly too far.

He was the most gorgeous sight John had ever seen.

“You okay?” John asked, but he was already fumbling forward to untie Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock’s cock slipped out with a wet slurping sound, and Sherlock sobbed, his trembling becoming almost violent in its intensity.

“Sorry,” John told him. His arse felt odd, uncomfortably wet and open, but he put it out of his mind, focused only on Sherlock and getting him free. “Sorry, just—give me a moment.”

He loosened the first knot easily, although the second took longer. When Sherlock’s wrists were finally free, Sherlock sat up immediately, shoving John aside so he could work on untying his own legs, although he was shaking too badly to manage on his own. Every exhale brought with it a weak, barely audible moan; John wondered if he even realised he was doing it.

“It’s all right,” John said, crawling forward to help. “I didn’t tie these ones as tightly.”

Once John had loosened them, Sherlock was able to untie the ropes entirely and free himself. Then he was throwing himself at John, forcing John to his back on the duvet and climbing on top of him. John had to stamp down the urge to struggle, particularly when Sherlock proceeded to nearly wrench John’s arm as he grasped it and tugged it towards him. He fastened his mouth to the cuts on John’s arm, ran his tongue along them, and sank his teeth into the skin around them, biting down and sobbing when they began to bleed again.

It hurt, very much the bad sort of pain now that John was no longer aroused, but again he stopped himself from responding instinctually, from yanking his arm back and trying to defend himself if Sherlock attempted to follow.

Instead, he used his free hand to stroke Sherlock’s sweat-damp hair from his forehead and murmured, “It’s all right. You can have me. Come here.”

John spread his thighs and reached for Sherlock’s prick, still wrapped in the condom and still very, very hard, and he guided it to his hole.

The noise Sherlock made, as his cock slid back in, was like nothing John had ever heard from him. It was somewhere between the shocked and tortured “ugh” of a man being shot and the relieved and blissful “ahh” of a man settling into a warm bath. Sherlock abandoned John’s arm instantly so that he could wind himself around John, bury his face in John’s right shoulder. He took a thick bit of skin into his mouth and bit down as John tilted his arse up so Sherlock could sink even deeper.

“Fuck me,” John told him. “Whatever you need, Sherlock, come on—”

Sherlock managed only one proper thrust before he came, crying helplessly into John’s shoulder as his trembling returned. John simply lay still and let him, carding his fingers soothingly through Sherlock’s hair.

Afterwards, Sherlock came around very, very slowly, enough so that John thought at first he might be falling asleep—and how odd would that be, Sherlock falling asleep in John’s arms with his softened, condom-covered cock still lodged in John’s bum?—but eventually, after nearly fifteen minutes of John petting his hair, he began to rouse himself. First by nuzzling at the new bite mark he’d left on John’s shoulder, which was light enough that it was sure to be gone by morning, and then by inching backwards until his prick could finally slip free. John grunted; gone was the enjoyable sensation of being stretched and massaged, replaced by sharp discomfort and a general feeling of needing a shower so he could wash the remnants of lube from his arse.

“Are you okay?” he asked, resuming the slow stroking of his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “That, er. That didn’t turn out quite how I planned.”

“That was my spot,” Sherlock answered, sounding faintly sulky. “I wanted to cut you there.”

John blinked, hand stilling. After what they’d just done, that was the first thing Sherlock felt like commenting on? Not the rope bondage or that John had won their little game or that John had managed to reduce Sherlock to a greedy little whore desperate to put his cock in something, but what bit of skin John had chosen to cut?

He sighed and cast his eyes to the ceiling in fond exasperation. “It’ll heal,” he reminded Sherlock.

“Mm. I’ll see if I can find a way to speed the healing process.”

“No,” John told him firmly. “I’ve seen how some of your experiments turn out. I don’t fancy ending up like the last batch of toenails, thanks.”

Sherlock said nothing, hardly even seemed to hear John. He was too busy budging up until he could bury his face in John’s hair and cradle John’s head almost protectively against his chest. John wondered how far Sherlock had gone out of his own mind—or possibly how deep _into_ it—and whether he was having any difficulty coming back. He seemed all right now, but that sort of thing was hard to judge when you weren’t the one experiencing it.

“Must you think so loudly?” Sherlock said suddenly, with a heavy sigh. “I’m fine. That was enjoyable—exceptionally so. You were surprisingly clever, and I am _very_ open to the possibility of a repeat performance… although perhaps with a rope that is slightly more comfortable. Rest assured that there was never a moment when I wanted you to stop. I’ll help you clean and bandage your arm shortly. Also, you should probably know that the image of you in pain is becoming more addictive than any of the controlled substances I have dabbled in, the number of which—as you know—is extensive.”

There was a lot to unpack in that, certainly a lot more than John felt equipped to handle right then. There was, however, one bit that stood out to him.

“I was clever, was I?”

Sherlock huffed but didn’t argue, and John grinned, feeling quite pleased with himself indeed.


End file.
